The Golden Cottage
by AlessNox
Summary: In a golden cottage deep in the English countryside a man comes to visit and to ask what went wrong with a friendship that once seemed so bright. CURRENTLY IN REVISION
1. Someone at the door

Sunset, a golden sky above a green garden, and gazing out of the window of the small cottage, a man stands playing a violin. He closes his eyes and sways a bit as he plays, committing to memory the rainbow-edged sky fading to blue. So focused he is on this, that he doesn't notice the sound of steps as the front door quietly opens.

A man enters, bags in his hands, silhouetted by the fading light. He stands frozen in the doorway listening to the music. The player stills as the last of the notes sail on, then he cocks his head. And with eyes still closed he asks, "John?"

"Hello Sherlock. May I come in?"

Sherlock turns waving his bow dramatically as he looks at the man in the doorway. "Why bother to ask? You're already inside." He places the violin and bow into its case, and then turns to look at the man who is still waiting. "I didn't hear you knock."

"I didn't knock. I didn't want to interrupt your playing."

"It's not like it's anything important. Just something that I do to amuse myself."

"How can you say that? Your playing is amazing. It's one of the wonders of the universe. Such a waste that no one ever gets to hear it."

"Well, today you did."

"And I feel my luck. That's why I didn't knock."

"Close the door. It's getting chill."

John closes the door quietly but firmly. "You shouldn't leave your door unlocked like this. There have been break-ins reported in the area."

"Break-ins? You mean by people other than you? Don't be such a worry-wart John. It was day, and I'm hardly a prime target for criminal activity. That being said, I'd welcome a break-in. It'd liven up things around here. Sometimes life in the country can be deadly dull."

John places his luggage on the floor beside the door, one suitcase, and his medical bag. Then he turns back to face Sherlock who is still standing across the room. They observe each other in the insufficient light of the windows and one small table lamp, which attempts to light their faces but somehow only succeeds in casting more shadows.

"How did you find me? I was quite certain not to leave my forwarding address."

"I know. I was surprised that you hadn't told Mrs Hudson where you'd gone. I must have called you a dozen times, and left you twice as many texts. Surely even this place has phone reception."

"It might, if I chose to connect my phone. You haven't answered my question though, how did you find me?"

"I asked your brother."

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft. Of course, he would know, but why would he tell you where I am?"

"I can be very persuasive."

Sherlock smiled at that. "Yes, you can. But surely you must have guessed that I came here to get away from everyone. What brings you here?"

"I heard about the accident. I was worried."

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine. You can go back home now."

"I won't leave until I've examined you myself."

"Oh, a house call from Dr Watson? I'm honored. Not many doctors do them in this day and age. John, I'm fine. The best doctors checked me out after the accident. Mycroft made sure of that."

"Well, I have my own opinions about what constitutes proper care."

There was silence again as the two of them stared at each other. Sherlock gave in first. He bowed his head, hobbling over to the chair beside the fireplace. John hung his coat on the hook before moving over to take the other chair. He looked at Sherlock for a moment and then rose, bending down before the fireplace and lighting the wood with a match from the mantle. He cupped his hands and blew. Bright red sparks flew from the kindling, and soon a strong flame rose licking the logs so that they came ablaze. John dusted the soot off of his hands, and then wiped them on his pants legs before sitting back down in the chair across from Sherlock.

"Feels like old times this. You and me sitting beside the fire. It's been a long time. Far too long since we've seen each other."

"Eight years, three months and two days, if you don't count Mike Stamford's funeral. You were called away before it was over."

"Oh yes, that's right. Janet Sullivan, pre-eclampsia. I meant to talk to you then, but... we kept missing each other."

"Yes, we did."

A silence descended as the world outside of the windows faded to black. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the light tapping of Sherlock's fingers on the arm of the chair.

"You brought your bags," Sherlock said. "Do you plan to stay the night?"

"I meant to get here early enough to get a room at the nearby bed and breakfast, but the driver got lost more than once. I had to call Mycroft's office for directions. He finally ended up dropping me off on the side of a deserted road beside a battered letter box, and I walked for two miles down what looked like a cow path to get here. I doubt that they'd pick me up again before morning, even if I could find my way back to the road. How did you make it here injured as you are?"

"I told you John, I'm fine. You needn't have gone to such trouble."

"It's no trouble, really, but I do think that I might have to kip on your couch tonight."

"I don't have a couch, and this cottage only has one bedroom. but you can sleep in my bed. I've got something I'm composing so, I don't mind staying up tonight."

"I'm not turning an injured man out of his bed. This isn't the first time that I've slept in a chair. You know that."

"I do. I also know how much you complain about your back afterwards."

"Well, I'm not taking your bed."

"Then we can get the spare bed out of the attic. Are you willing to do a bit of lifting?"

"Certainly, but I'd like a cup of tea first. Trudging through the woods with two cases tends to dry a fellow out. But I want to be useful. I'll make the tea myself, if you don't mind."

"I never minded you making tea, John."

"Then point the way to the kitchen."

Sherlock gestured grandly back in the direction from which they had come and John rose to his feet passing across the room and into the kitchen. He turned on the light and looked around briefly zeroing in on the kettle. He filled it with water and put it on the stove, before searching the cupboard for tea.

Sherlock entered just as he found it. He sat down at the kitchen table and watched John with eyes that ate up every movement. John looked back at him and smiled.

"You seem quite... alert. What are you looking at? I'm only making tea."

"Only making tea? John, you must know what an understatement that is. You are supremely good at making tea."

"Oh, you could do it if you ever stirred yourself to learn. Besides, doesn't Eric ever make tea for you?"

"Coffee. Eric drinks coffee. He did attempt to make tea once or twice, but he gave up the attempt after I scoffed at him."

"I suppose that we can't fault him for not knowing how to make a proper pot of tea. He is American after all."

"Yes, it's quite a failing."

"Where is Eric by the way? Why didn't he come with you? I can't see walking a mile or ten fazing a strong lad like him."

"He's taking his mother on a tour of Germany. Apparently, she's always wanted to see Berlin. I'm more surprised that you found time to be away from your family. How's Mary and the baby?"

"They're fine. She has a friend staying over to help her while I'm away, and Violet is loving being a big sister. "

"But she was already a big sister."

"According to her, William didn't count because he was a boy. Apparently to be a_ true_ big sister, one must be sister to a girl."

"I see. If only Mycroft would have felt that way. Then perhaps he would have left me alone more, the meddling prat."

"Now Sherlock, you shouldn't talk about your brother like that. He has helped you out of some serious scrapes before."

"What is this, John? Are you fathering me now? I'm much too old for such a thing."

"Once a father, always a father."

"I suppose that's true. Thank heavens that I have escaped the curse."

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I think that you might make a good father."

"Don't be ridiculous. Look, the water is boiling."

Then John noticed the rising wail of the kettle. He turned off the heat, and poured it into the teapot to steep. Then he brought two mugs and sugar to the table before looking into the refrigerator. "Sherlock, you don't have milk."

"Of course not. Who would lug it out here? You might, however, find a cow on the path somewhere if you're lucky." Sherlock gestured with the back of his hand toward the wall, and John turned to look as if he could see cows roaming through it.

"Nevermind. We'll make do without it," John said as he poured the tea. He added the sugar stirring it in before passing it to Sherlock who lifted the mug to his lips and closed his eyes in pleasure.

"I don't know how you do it, John, but somehow, you always make a perfect cup of tea."

"Some people just have the knack, although it would be much better with milk. We'll get some tomorrow."

Sherlock lowered the mug, but kept both hands on it as he looked at John. "How long do you plan to stay here?"

"How long will it be until you consent to an examination?"

"John, I don't need one. I told you, the doctors released me. I'm perfectly fine."

"It may be a few days then."

"Fine. Then let's get that bed down from the attic."

"After my tea, Sherlock."

"Of course."

They drank in companionable silence, and when Sherlock's cup was empty, John made him another. The cottage was quiet the way that Baker Street had never been. There were noises, but they were different: The tick of the clock on the wall. The scrape of tree branches against the edge of the roof. A drip in the kitchen sink. The crisp crack of a log in the fire.

John placed his mug on the table and waited while Sherlock finished his last sip with a sigh. He nodded once smiling then said, "Let's go."

They walked out of the kitchen and across the living room to the hallway where Sherlock gestured to a rope hanging from the ceiling. John stood on his toes and stretched, but he couldn't reach it. Sherlock lifted his arm and easily touched the rope, but before he could pull down the attic stairs, he felt a hand pressed against his side.

"Your side is very stiff. The bed can wait. I'm examining you now. Go into the bedroom and undress. I'll wash my hands and get my bag."

"But John..."

The firm look that John gave him silenced Sherlock's outburst, and he turned toward his bedroom. John walked back toward the door to get his bag.


	2. The scars we carry

The bedroom was unlike the one in Sherlock's London flat. It was more rustic with wooden beams exposed in the ceiling and walls papered with images of birds in tan and blue. An old wooden wardrobe sat in the corner beside the door, topped by a stack of books. The wooden floorboards showed signs that another bed had once sat in the room, but the space was now filled with boxes full of scientific equipment: a microscope, some test tubes, beakers, and burners. The boxes looked untouched. This, more than anything he had seen in the flat so far, gave John pause.

The low bed where Sherlock sat had blue striped sheets that matched his pajama bottoms. He glanced up at John with eyes that gave nothing away. John stared down at him for a few seconds with his bag in his hand. Then he bent down placing it down on the floor.

John spied a chair by the window, and walked over to it. He placed his hand on the back, surveying the desk to find that it was covered with scattered papers, but instead of case files, or the chemical equations that he was used to, he saw pencil drawings - sketches of trees and the wings of birds. He reached out and turned on the desk lamp to add more light to the room, before dragging the chair to the side of the bed.

"Really, John. This is unnecessary."

John sat in the chair. "Let me decide what's necessary or not for your health, Sherlock."

"Why?"

John opened his mouth and then closed it. "Because ... I'm a doctor."

Sherlock shrugged and sat quietly as John fished his stethoscope out of his bag placing the ends into his ears and testing it on his own heart first before reaching out and placing the bell squarely in the middle of Sherlock's chest. He moved it around the heart listening carefully. Then he rose to his feet and bent over Sherlock placing the bell on his back.

"Breathe."

Sherlock breathed in deeply, his eyes fluttering to a close as John placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"And again."

Sherlock took another deep breath before John, satisfied, took off the stethoscope and placed it back into his bag.

John sat back down on the chair then and reached out to cup the sides of Sherlock's neck feeling his tonsils. Then he took out a light and checked Sherlock's eyes which contracted as he held the light closer. He also looked in Sherlock's ears. Then he rummaged in the bag for a thermometer. He placed it in Sherlock's mouth and pushed a button. A few seconds later, it beeped, and he pulled it out.

"Your temperature is a little high. Do you feel feverish?" John placed the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead.

"No. A bit of a cough a few days ago, but I'm fine now. Listen, John. It's nice that you are concerned about my health, but I assure you, this is totally unnecessary."

"Humor me then," John said reaching out and lifting his left arm until he winced. "Take off your shirt."

Sherlock crossed his arms, and pulled the grey t-shirt up over his head, before tossing it on the floor. John's eyes widened a bit, but he kept the rest of his face impassive as he looked at the array of scars on Sherlock's body. He scooted his chair closer and then reached out with his left hand touching the bullet wound with two fingers.

John remembered that wound. He remembered when he had first seen the hole right in the middle of Sherlock's chest, and thought it fatal. Miraculously it had missed the heart entire, although that was no miracle really. Mary was an excellent shot. He didn't like to think of it, but Sherlock didn't have the option of forgetting the time when he had almost died. No, when he _had_ died. He had been dead for thirty-seven seconds, a long time. John sucked in a breath, and then looked up to see Sherlock watching him. His piercing blue eyes focused on John's face. John gave his most neutral smile and went on.

There were a number of small scars across the surface of Sherlock's chest. One knife cut in his side that had, thankfully, missed the spleen. He remembered that as well. A nasty scrape at the docks with a gun-runner. The pits above his belly button were new to him, however, and a scar over his _rectus abdominus_ where the skin had been stitched up. All of this paled against the huge black bruise that covered the left side of his torso. John lifted his arm and ran his finger down it. Sherlock winced. Something heavy had cracked most of the ribs on that side, and a gash began at the top of his abdomen and kept going down.

"Take your trousers off."

"You may not have noticed, John, but the room is cold."

"The faster that you do it, the faster we will get this examination over with."

Sherlock rose and untied the straps of his pajamas, dropping them to his feet and stepping out of them. He kicked them into the corner and was about to sit back down on the bed, when John placed a hand on his stomach.

"Just stand there," he said as he traced the pucker of skin down Sherlock's side. It went below his pants, and continued down the outside of his thigh.

"This is deep. It must have bled a great deal."

"It did."

"Gutted you like a fish did they?"

"He did, yes."

John looked up at that, trying to read the story in Sherlock's face. But Sherlock turned his eyes away, and John went back to his examination.

He rubbed antibiotic cream all along the seam, before telling Sherlock that he could dress, and walking out of the room.

.

He washed his hands in the bathroom sink, but no amount of water could wash away the feeling that this was somehow all his fault.

John leaned over the sink and breathed heavily willing himself not to cry. He twisted the tap on high to cover the sound, and splashed a bit of water on his face, combing his hair back with his fingers. Once he was sure that nothing was showing on his face, he opened the door and walked back out.

He sat before the fireplace watching the flames flicker as the log slowly burned down. It was several long minutes before Sherlock entered the room fully dressed, and sat in the chair beside him. "John, would you like me to start some water so that we can have some more tea?"

"Do you have anything stronger?" John asked, and Sherlock rose returning with two small glasses of gin.

"It's a local specialty," he said handing a glass to John who sipped it twice before downing the rest in one go. "Careful, John. Neither of us is the drinker that we were in our youth."

"Well that's a blessing. We were piss poor drinkers back then."

Sherlock giggled at that, and then John did, as Sherlock took John's glass to refill it. He handed it back and then sat across from John holding the drink gingerly in his fingertips.

"It was a syndicate of sorts," Sherlock said filling the silence. "Nothing like Moriarty's, but they must have had three dozen operations in the Greater London area alone. Extortion mostly, but also theft, arson, and murder. I exposed most of it, but the leader, a man called George Gordon-Rose, always escaped our net.

"One evening, I discovered the key to link him to the murder of a pair of bankers, and so I rushed out alone. In retrospect, I should have waited for back up. I was captured and impaled on a meat hook. He spent a few hours torturing me before the police finally arrived and arrested him. I was in no good state to give evidence then, but Gordon-Rose's ramblings gave me clues to even more of his operations and we were able to send him to gaol for a good long time."

"He tortured you?"

"John, there's no need to be concerned. It wasn't the first time that I've been tortured. Although, he was cruder than others. I do think revenge may have played more of a motive in his actions than is usual."

"You could have died."

"We can die at anytime, John, even tonight. You don't stop living because you're afraid of dying. Dying is the only certainty we have in life."

"Yes, that's true. It's just..."

"Just what, John?"

"I wish that I had been with you."

"So that you could be tortured as well?"

"No, I just mean that if I had been there, maybe you wouldn't have been captured. Maybe together we could have, I don't know, taken them out or stopped them somehow. I just wish that I had been there."

"I wished that as well."

The hollow log cracked in two, and its pieces fell to the bottom of the fireplace in a spray of sparks. Sherlock rose. "John, go to bed. I will be composing tonight."

John shook his head. "I think that I'll stay here for now. I have some things that I need to think about."

Sherlock nodded. He rose from the chair and placed another log on the fire, before walking away with the glasses. Some minutes later, the violin began wailing her melancholy song to the night. John listened in wonder before he finally drifted off to sleep.


	3. A serving of truth with tea

Morning came with the bright twitter of birdsong and the low moaning sound of John as he rose from the chair. "My back!" he cried.

Sherlock looked up from his music stand, his hand still keeping time as he counted out notes in his head. "Good morning, John."

"Ouch, my back hurts!"

"I told you so."

"Well, thanks for not rubbing it in. Since when are you a morning person?"

"I'm not. I just never bothered to sleep."

"Oh, I need paracetamol."

"Did the drink go to your head? You _are_ a lightweight."

"I must have been dehydrated from the walk. Please don't tell me that you're going to play something chipper. I don't know if my head could stand it."

Sherlock smiled as he pulled his violin and bow from the case and played a cheery rendition of the _allegro assai_ from _Bach's Violin Concerto in A minor_. John groaned, frowning at Sherlock as he shuffled past him toward the bathroom. Sherlock grinned back. After washing his hands and drinking a glass of water from the sink, John reached into his bag and took a pill for his headache, then he took a moment to close his eyes and realize where he was. He was back with Sherlock again. The grin that he saw in the mirror was much too large and joyful. Luckily the pain in his back and head helped him hide the pleasure that threatened to bubble out of him at any moment.

He crept back into the room, hovering at its edge to simply take in the brilliance of his former flatmate. The corner of his mouth crept upward into a slow smile, and his eyes glittered. Sherlock finished the piece with a flourish.

"That was magnificent," John said and Sherlock turned toward him with a broad smile that transformed, as he looked at him into something more somber, modest, and questioning. They locked eyes, but Sherlock was the first to turn away. "I'll start some tea, shall I? You get the groceries from the step."

"Groceries?" John asked as he trudged over to the front door. He opened it to find a pair of grocery bags. "Did you go out while I was asleep? Why leave the milk on the step?"

"Of course I didn't go out, John. I'm still in my slippers. I had it delivered."

John bent down and picked up the bags bringing them into the kitchen. "Who delivered them, trained pigeons? A dog? Do they have an Alsatian that carries groceries like the ones that carry drinks in little kegs around their necks?"

"Those are St. Bernards. And no, I did not have the wildlife of the area bring me food from the store. Wherever did you get such a notion? I pay a boy to bring me things. I texted him last night."

"I thought that you said that you didn't have a phone?"

"I said that I didn't have one _connected_. I reassembled it last night, sent the text, and then took it apart again, the matter of a moment."

Sherlock put the full kettle on the stove. John put the milk in the refrigerator along with the cheese and cold cuts. He placed the biscuit tin on the table and sat down. "Are you going to tell me why you've retreated to live like a hermit out here when you used to swear that you would never leave London?"

Sherlock sat at the table across from him. "Never is a long time, John."

"I understand that you need time to recover. That injury, I must admit that I was pretty shocked by it. Most people would have died from that."

"I'm not most people."

"That's an understatement," John said with eyes filled with warmth.

Sherlock turned his head away. "Why did you come, John?"

"To see you."

"Obviously, but why now?"

"You had been hurt. I wanted to see you."

"We lived in the same city. You could have visited me at any time."

"I only heard about the accident when I read the police report of the trial in the newspaper. I called the yard and they said that you had been sent to hospital in critical condition weeks before. No one told me. No one told me that you had been hurt! By the time I had tracked you down, you had been released. I went to Baker Street, but you weren't there either. I came as soon as I found out where you were. Christ! I miss Mike Stamford."

"I suppose you mean that he would have told you about me?"

"Yes, he would have. It's such a pity that he's gone."

"It was hardly unexpected given his weight and levels of stress that he should have heart problems."

"True, but he was a good friend, and he introduced me to you."

Sherlock nodded, then he crossed his legs and looked away. John took the opportunity to stare directly at Sherlock's face. Sherlock's temples were finally turning grey. It made him look even more distinguished and intelligent than before. "Just like you to age gracefully. Lucky bastard!"

"What?"

"The grey suits you. It just makes me look like Father Christmas."

"Of course you don't look like Father Christmas, John. You don't have a beard."

"I wouldn't dare grow one after the mustache fiasco."

Sherlock laughed, a sharp bark followed by a smile. John pointed at him. "There it is, the smile that I was looking for." They smiled at each other for a long moment, then the kettle whistled. Sherlock rose, but John put out a hand. "I make the tea, remember?"

Sherlock resumed his seat. "Yes, thank you, John."

In silence interrupted only by the sound of birdsong, John went through the ritual of making tea, with milk this time. He brought the finished mugs to the table, and the two of them stared at the steam rising from the surface.

"So why did you come here? I thought... I thought the work was everything for you."

"Did you now, even after..."

"After what?"

Sherlock stared intensely into John's eyes. Then he blinked, and looked away again with a sigh before saying, "So, another daughter. How is married life treating you?"

"Good, good."

"Please don't lie to me, John. Your eyes have constricted, you're wrinkling you're forehead, and there is a point five second pause between when you would normally answer a question and when you responded that tells me that you were considering what would be best to say. We are beyond the need for polite lies, don't you think? Tell me the truth."

"Okay. Mary's business is doing well, very well. She's considering expanding her offices, perhaps moving closer to work. But, she's going to wait until the baby is a little older."

"Her business is becoming fairly high profile. Isn't she afraid that she might be recognized? She is a woman with a past."

"She has a partner now, Thomas Godfrey. Young bloke. Beard. Very personable. He's the face of New Wave Medical Products."

"Thomas Godfrey? I remember a Thomas Godfrey, but he was a wrestler."

"That's him."

"He seemed very... fit, but not obviously intelligent."

"He was intelligent enough to latch on to my wife. She's the brains, he's the face."

"I thought that you were a co-owner in the company."

"I'm a silent partner now. She runs it on her own. I'm just a simple family doctor."

Sherlock humphed. "You're hardly that John. So when are you planning to get divorced?"

"That's a bit harsh, Sherlock."

"Well, you've as much as told me that she's sleeping with him. Is the baby yours?"

"Yes, she is. I checked."

"So, when is the divorce?"

"We're not breaking up. We're staying together... for the children."

"John, a home where the parents don't love and respect each other is not the best place for raising children."

"Read that in a book, did you?"

"Yes. That doesn't mean that it isn't true. Perhaps you'll both be happier if you go through with the divorce proceedings."

"We've already decided. She's got her flat across town. I'm close to home. Family is something that's very important to both of us. Mary would kill before she let anything happen to her family."

Sherlock's hand strayed to his chest. "That's something I know very well." John looked stricken. "No, John, don't get upset. What's done is done."

John put down the cup. "I've been thinking ... "

"You've been thinking about your life with Mary. Wondering if you made the right choice."

John wiped his face and sat back in his chair. "Yes."

"What if I told you that you didn't? What if I told you that you made a mistake leaving 221B in the first place? Is that the reason that you came, for me to justify your self pity? Tell you that things would have been better if you had never met Mary, if you had never married and had children? Because if that's the real reason, I'd rather we got it over with so that you can go back home. I have better things to do than help you justify your midlife crisis."

"No, Sherlock, that's not why I'm here, although maybe it is. I mean... Mary, she isn't what I expected, not by a long shot, but she hasn't been a bad wife, and our kids. I can't imagine what my life would be without them. Even the baby. She was an accident. The product of a brief time when we were back together. That was before I found out about Thomas. Mary always could lie directly to my face, and I wouldn't know. I never know if I can trust her. But when I looked in my daughter's eyes for the first time, I knew that I would die for her, I would kill for her, and Mary would too. There is nothing that we won't do to give all of them the happiest life possible."

"And that's worth giving up your own happiness?"

"Yes, I think so."

Sherlock frowned and sat back in his chair. "Then I'm happy for you, cheers!" He raised his mug and took a sip before dropping it down heavily to slam on the table. Then he rose to his feet, and the mug fell to the floor, shattering as Sherlock fled from the room leaving John to sit alone.


	4. The dew-bright garden

After clearing away the tea and tossing out the broken mug, John went in search of Sherlock. He found him behind the cottage standing in the stone courtyard in the middle of a damp garden. It was bright with colors: purple, white, red, and the occasional yellow butterfly. The leaves and flowers shone like wet paint in the morning dew. John couldn't help but think that the garden suited Sherlock with its flowers that couldn't be bothered to stay inside the rock walls where they had been planted. He approached Sherlock standing beside him as he gazed out into the trees. He didn't turn to look at John, but he leaned slightly toward him, unconsciously drawn to his warmth.

"This is a change for you," John said. "No cases, no science experiments. It's different. Why did you to come to a remote cottage in the woods when you could be in London working?"

"_Solitude, vicegerent of Eternity, vanquishes men's dreams no less than armies, and men have known this ever since they came into being and realized that they must die._"

"Who said that?"

"André Malraux."

"Since when is literature and philosophy something that you do?"

"Come now, John. You're not the only one allowed to change. I decided to give myself some time to focus on my art. Here I can pursue my thoughts without the need to impose my moods on others."

"You never tried to protect me from your dark moods?"

"You never minded them."

"Oh, I minded them. I minded you stealing my gun to shoot faces on the wall."

"Did you bring your gun with you?"

"What? You want do some target practice here? Wouldn't it invalidate your lease or something? I can't guess that any other landlady is as forgiving as Mrs Hudson."

"I don't rent this cabin, I own it."

"You own it? Is this some secret Holmes property that's been in your family for ages?"

"Hardly, It was a gift."

"A gift? From whom?"

"A lovely old woman named Joyce. She hired me to find her son's fiance. I found her dead, strangled and buried by a previous lover. Joyce, however, remained a lifelong contact. The things she knew about sex clubs and bondage techniques were truly enlightening."

John laughed. "So, how long do you plan to stay here?"

"I don't know. A few months, maybe more."

"You should go in for a visit to your doctor. Those wounds need supervision."

"Why bother? My doctor is here." They looked at each other and Sherlock gave John a rare smile.

"It's lovely here. I always wanted a garden of my own," John said. "I could grow medicinal plants, make my own medicines. I've had a few potted plants, but I could never find a way to have a garden in London. Shame really, Watson men are famed for their green thumb."

Sherlock looked down at John. "You can have this garden, if you like. I haven't done anything with it. All I ask is that you leave me a bit of room for a few plants that I am interested in growing."

"What kind of plants, exactly?"

"Belladona, hemlock."

"Poisons? I should have guessed. I suppose that we could plant a medicine and poison garden if you like. Maybe even grow a few herbs to cook with. I've got quite good at making pasta sauce from scratch these days. But given your interest in poisons, I think that I should be the one doing the cooking from now on."

Sherlock laughed. "I think I'd like that. I can't be bothered to eat most days anyway. Too much trouble."

"Are you going to make me worry about you again? You need to eat, Sherlock, if only to feed that big brain of yours."

"Cooking was never my strong suit, John. And cooking for one is tedious."

"Don't you ever cook for Eric?"

"No! Why should I? It's not like he lives at the flat. He only comes by to work."

"So, how has he been getting on as an assistant?"

"He's fine...eager. The other day he showed me a machine that could take a DNA analysis at the crime scene while you waited. Used a wireless network to look up known assailants. It can even give you their address. It's hardly worth going out these days. Pretty soon they won't need me at all."

"Oh come now, Sherlock, you will always be needed. There are just too many idiots in the world."

'I suppose that is true," Sherlock said with a smile.

"How's Lestrade?"

"Bogged down in paperwork. He hardly ever gets to go to crime scenes since his promotion."

"I bet he hates that."

"You've no idea, and he takes it out on me most of the time."

"And that bothers you?"

"No. Why would it?"

"I don't know. I suppose it bothered Tuvo though."

"Who?"

"Tuvo, Edwardo Tuvo, the assistant that you had after me."

"Oh him. I only had him for the one case. You weren't available, and Lestrade felt that I needed backup."

"What do you mean? I thought that he was working with you. You said that you had a new assistant."

"I did."

"You should have told me that it was only for the one case."

"How could I, John, when you had felt so relieved by the whole thing? You told me in detail all of the other things that you were doing that were more important than helping me with my cases."

"They weren't more important."

"John, you left a crime scene in the middle of a case to pick up your child from school."

"Violet had chicken pox! There was a problem with the vaccination. We traced it back to the original batch, and had all of the affected children re-vaccinated. It was a big issue."

"As I said, you had more important things to do. I didn't want to interfere with your work."

"But Sherlock, I didn't mean to leave you with no one to help you."

"John, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself. I already have a brother that treats me like a child. I don't need you doing it as well."

"But Sherlock, I feel awful. I shouldn't have... left you."

"John, don't feel guilt about it after all of this time. You're always trying to take responsibility for other people's decisions. I did perfectly well on my own, and when I needed help, I hired some."

"Yes, Eric Morrison seems a fine chap. How did you find him by the way?"

"He wrote me an email requesting an internship. He had just moved to London to live with his mother. He had been studying law and medicine after leaving the U.S. Army, and decided that criminology was what he was really interested in. I found that he had some merit."

"Some merit? Isn't he a mathematical genius or some such? Solved some problem or other when he was just a kid?"

"Yes, he does have one major mathematical theorem named after him. He hasn't done much else with it since then. He does have an interesting method of thinking though, and an irritating habit of assigning numbers to cases as if they have relevance when they don't."

"You never used to like the names that I came up with for the cases on the blog either."

"No, I didn't. You stopped writing the blog. Why?"

"I ... didn't have anything else to say. I wasn't working with you anymore."

"Didn't those more important things merit writing about?"

"Sherlock."

"Never mind, it's not important. I'm done with that now anyway. I'm retiring from detective work for a while, maybe forever."

"Retiring from detective work? You? Did you tell Lestrade about this?"

"Of course."

"What did he say when you told him that you were leaving?"

"He said that it was a good idea."

John stared at Sherlock, his mouth falling open. "My God. You really did almost die again, didn't you?"

"Why do you say that, John?"

"Because Lestrade wouldn't say that. For him it's always about the cases, about the lives that are damaged when they aren't solved. If he's willing to let you run off to the woods to become a musician, he must have been really worried about you."

"You didn't talk to him before you came after me?"

"No time. I took the first train out once I had found out where you had gone."

"Why so urgent? It's been eight years."

"You almost died."

"John, you know how dangerous the work can be."

"I know, but I've watched you die twice. I've had my fill of losing you."

The clouds shifted then, and the morning sun shown down strong, lighting the damp garden so that the beads of water on the flowers glowed like jewels. They watched as a lazy yellow butterfly flew by.

"Sentiment."

"Yes, Sherlock, sentiment! There's a place for sentiment in this world. There's a time to admit that I miss working with you. That I love..."

"My doctors say that walking will help me regain my mobility. I think that I'll take a walk now. Later John."

"But Sherlock!"

Sherlock strode through the garden and down a dirt path. John tried to follow, but with his long legs, Sherlock quickly outpaced him leaving John alone and confused.


	5. Paper sketches

When Sherlock hadn't returned by lunch time, John fixed himself a sandwich. He sat around for a few minutes debating whether or not to fix something for Sherlock, and then decided against it. After a few more minutes of boredom, he went to look for something useful to do.

He carried his bags into the bedroom and placed them near the wardrobe. Then he resolved to bring down the spare bed himself. John stood on a chair to reach the rope lowering the steps, and then he climbed into the attic.

A mattress was propped in the corner beside a wooden bed frame. The screws were neatly placed in a plastic bag taped to the side. Looking for tools, John opened a plastic crate to find Sherlock's old lab notebooks. Nostalgia overtook him, and he lifted a book with a brown stain on the cover. Careful not to touch the stain which smelled of phenol and was most likely toxic, he leafed through the pages looking at Sherlock's scrawling handwriting and tables of data. He flipped quickly through the pages smiling at Sherlock's observations of metal content in Thames river water and fungal growth on the surface of severed fingers until his attention was diverted by a drawing in the margin of a page. It was a sketch of John's face.

The image was in ink, a collection of light scratches beside a description of the effect of gasoline on preserved skin. It had been drawn in their old flat. He recognized the kitchen cabinets behind his head. He was preparing dinner, likely one of those times when Sherlock couldn't be bothered to stop his experiment for something so mundane as food.

Looking at the sketch, John was seized with a desire to see if there were others, so he picked up another notebook and another, leafing through the margins for images of himself. He found them: A drawing of him hunched over his laptop. His face as he slept. The line of his back as he stood looking out of the window. His hands holding up a book. In fact, although there were occasional sketches of other things such as beakers or severed thumbs, most of the stray images were pictures of him.

The crate was empty now, all of the books having been sorted into_ 'those with images of him'_ and_ 'those without'_. It filled him with a strange sense of uncertainty to know that he had been captured at unawares. To know that Sherlock had been stealing glances at him and drawing these images. He knew that Sherlock watched him, of course. Sherlock watched everything, but he began to wonder if the obsessive curiosity and fascination that he had always had for Sherlock could be somehow mirrored in Sherlock's interest in him. He wondered if there were more drawings somewhere else, then he remembered Sherlock's desk.

John climbed down the steps and walked into the bedroom. Sitting at the desk beside the window, he carefully leafed through the drawings that he had seen there. Under the sketches of birds and fence posts, he found a drawing of his face, made with exquisite tenderness and skill. The glint of his eyes and the wrinkles on the side of his face were rendered perfectly with crosshatching and shadow. There was another of him in wedding dress, and even one with his ill-fated mustache. He took them to the living room, building up a fire to counter the chill of Spring. Then he sat in his chair while he leafed through the pages admiringly.

His favorite was a small sketch on a thick scrap of white paper torn from the outside of a ream. It was a picture of him sitting at the kitchen table at Baker street. He was smiling, his face angled slightly up. He knew that he had never posed for such a thing. It was after Sherlock's return by the cut of his hair, and before the wedding because he wasn't wearing a ring. The coat looked new. He had bought it early in the Spring the year of his wedding. This might just be... yes, this was the day that he had asked Sherlock to be his best man.

John smiled. "Sentiment indeed."

.

Sherlock returned then from his walk. His hair wet from the rain. He stamped his feet and took off his coat before coming to stand beside the fire. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

"I never knew that you drew. These are quite good." John picked through the portraits showing Sherlock one of the side of his face.

Sherlock breathed in sharply, then he strode forward taking the papers from from John's hands. "Where did you find these?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean to invade your priva... What are you doing!" he cried as Sherlock threw the drawings into the fire.

John rushed forward and tried to pull them out. He held one of the burning pages in his fingertips. His head had already burned to ash, the edge of the paper curling away to black with lightning tracks of red as it crumbled beneath his hands. He frowned up at Sherlock. "What on Earth possessed you to do that?"

Sherlock stepped back, his knees rising like a startled stallion as he stood beside his chair. "They aren't important. They're just sketches I did when I was bored."

"That's no reason to destroy them. They were beautiful!"

"I said that they weren't important, John."

"They were to me?"

"Why? What possible facts can you glean from my idle sketches."

"I can tell that you were thinking of me."

"Nonsense, John. You were simply the most convenient model I had available. You were... a familiar subject like fruit or a vase of flowers."

"Was I? The last drawing was from a ream of paper purchased this month according to the tag taped to the back. I don't think that I was available to model then, so you must have drawn these from memory. You were thinking of me. I think that's... sweet."

Sherlock Adam's apple bobbed and he furrowed his brow. He turned away and began to pace. "The drawing has no relevance, John. Musings of an idle mind. I often make sketches. I find it soothing. They aren't meant for show."

"Is that why you burned them then? You were afraid that I would frame them and put them up for public scrutiny? Sherlock, I am always astounded how someone so incredibly arrogant as you appear to be, can also be so insecure about your talents. The drawings were lovely. Your talents of observation serve you well, and I am astounded at your memory. That you can remember the details of my coat and my hair after so many years. Things that even I had forgotten." John smiled. "You must have been thinking about me a lot."

"Not necessarily, you were just... familiar... that doesn't mean..." Sherlock looked down at John who was smiling back at him with such openness and love that he turned and fled the room.

.

John knocked on the bedroom door, and pushed it open to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, his back propped against the wall. John tossed Sherlock a towel as he entered. Then he sat down beside him, the bed bending a bit under his weight rocking Sherlock so that their shoulders touched for a moment. Sherlock covered his face and hair with the towel.

"It's okay to say that you missed me, you know. It's flattering, really. And I missed you too, all of the time. There were so many times when I wanted to pick up the phone or just stop by."

Sherlock turned his towel to look at John. "Why didn't you? You knew where I lived."

"Why didn't you?"

"What possible excuse would I have for visiting your house, John? I'm hardly the kind that people invite to children's birthday parties."

"But wait, Violet invited you to all of her parties. You never came, you never even replied to her letters."

"If you want a clown for her party, then you can hire one. I've done that before."

John laughed, "The clown suit! I had forgotten."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm so glad that I can amuse you, John."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean... So, I suppose that both of us were stubborn gits waiting for the other to make the first move. Well, I'm here now, Sherlock. So talk to me. All of those times that you wanted to call or come by, what did you want to say?"

Sherlock looked at his hands.

"Still can't say it, huh? I don't blame you. I wouldn't know what to say either. It isn't like what you said about me before wasn't true. I was busy, with the kids and the practice, and Mary, with her business interests and her_ other_ interests. I didn't want to get you involved in all of that."

"I thought that friends were supposed to be there to talk to. You used to talk to me, John. What happened? When did you lose faith in me?"

"I never lost faith in you, Sherlock. I never could...In fact, sometimes it seems that you're the only person in the world that I can trust, Christ!" John put his hands over his eyes, and then wiped his brow. "It's been so hard these last few years, and I wanted, I wanted to talk to you but... It's been so confusing, trying to do what's expected of me. Keeping up appearances. Paying the bills. The world is just full of so much mundane nonsense. It was so much simpler when the only things that we had to worry about were the next case, and how to pay the rent on time."

"We worried about paying the rent on time?"

"Sort of... but Mrs Hudson would never throw you out."

"Oh, I don't know, when the windows blew out, she seriously considered it."

"That wasn't your fault. And you protected her, when the CIA man hurt her."

Sherlock frowned. "Don't mention him to me."

"Does it still make you mad? That was so long ago, back when Irene Adler was around."

"You know that she's dead, for real now ... breast cancer."

"I know, Mycroft told me. Did you go to see her, before she died?"

"No."

"Did you want to?"

"Not really. She had her life too, you know. She and her partner, Kate, married. They were living in California. You must have rubbed off on her, John, because she kept a blog. She thought that she would survive it all the way to the end."

"She was an amazing woman."

"I had a dream about her, after she was dead. When the police arrived, and they took me off that hook, I passed out. I wasn't sure if I would ever wake again. Then, I saw her."

"What happened?"

"I was at my house, the house that I grew up in, walking toward the front door. But when I opened it, I saw a strange sculptured lawn with dark green boxwood bushes on a hill forming symbols that I did not understand. They were like Chinese characters, but... not. It was night, and there were lanterns in the distance. To the right, the bushes formed a labyrinth and I saw a Panda there.

"I was still inside, standing with my hand on the door, when I noticed something warm and large against my feet. I thought that it was my dog, Redbeard, and I reached down to pet him, but when I did, the room brightened, and I saw that it was the body of Irene Adler. She was stiff as if she were a corpse, her head flung back at an odd angle. I reached down to pick her up. I was wearing gloves, but as I touched her, she seemed to come to life. Her skin becoming supple, the rigor leaving her bones, and she hung limp before me and hale, her eyes closed.

"I said her name, and she lifted her head then and looked at me. She stared at me and into me. Then I woke up."

"Strange." John said, "But it's not uncommon to have dreams about people who have died. Maybe the garden was the afterlife. Good to think of her finding a nice place in the end, even though I never really got on with her."

"No, it wasn't meant to be comforting. To me it seemed to hold a great significance, as if she were trying to communicate with me. Although she never said a word physically, she was saying something powerful and important."

"What was she saying?"

Sherlock turned to stare at John. He held his gaze, his face full of a furious intensity. "I think that she was saying, '_Life!_'' "

"Life? What does that mean?"

"She was dead when I first touched her. She was an object, a thing to be manipulated, a thing without the ability to act, but then she changed, and she was able to move and communicate. She was able to influence others. When we are alive, we can do things. We have the power to change things, to change our lives. We won't have that power anymore once we are dead."

"So, what do you want to change, Sherlock?"

"I want to change the fact, that we ever parted from each other, that I ever left your side. When I left, because of Moriarty, I thought that I was saving us. Saving us to have a future together. And even though I know intellectually that it was the right decision, now I think that I was wrong to leave you, to hurt you that way. It started the crack that ultimately led to our parting. And when I was dying under the hand of that stupid butcher, my only regret in life was losing you."

"Sherlock... I ..."

"No John, you don't have to say anything. This is my revelation, not yours. You have your life. You are in some other place now. Maybe you're not ready to deal with what I have to say at this time. But I want you to know, that I will always be waiting, I _have_ always been waiting for you to return to me. And the the room upstairs at 221 Baker street is your room, and it always will be."

John simply stared at Sherlock who reached out and squeezed his hand, before rising and leaving the room. John sat on the bed with his mouth half open. He frowned then and looked at his hands as the sound of violin music filtered into the room. He recognized the song that Sherlock wrote for Irene Adler years ago that first time when they thought that she was dead.

It wasn't until a tear dropped into his palm that he realized that he had been crying.


	6. Together again

The rain on the roof grew from a gentle pitter-patter, to a flood until it drowned out the sound of Sherlock's playing. He lowered his violin and looked up to see John standing in the doorway staring at him with eyes gone dark and wide. He turned away, placing his violin in its case, and he started to resin his bow, avoiding eye contact as the heavy sound of rain made talking moot. Sherlock froze when he felt John's hand on his shoulder. Another hand wrapped gently around his wrist so that he lowered the bow and resin to the table. The rain ebbed.

"You are right," John began.

Sherlock hazarded a look at John's face. "I usually am. But what exactly am I 'right' about now?"

"You're right that we make a good team. We always have. I think that we always will. You're right to say that we belong together."

"Technically, I don't think that I ever actually said..."

"Shut up, Sherlock. I'm saying something important."

Sherlock nodded his head and then looked down into John's raised eyes. John's hand slid down from his shoulder to the small of his back. "I think..." John said, "I think that we should start again, right here, right now."

"What do you mean, 'start again'?"

"I'm not going back. I'm going to live here, in the cabin, with you."

"But what about your job? What about Mary and the children?"

"Don't you worry about them. I've spent the last eight years worrying about what they would think, what everyone would think. I ran myself ragged. Sacrificed and sacrificed until my heart felt raw. I hid my feelings away and soldiered on, taking everything, accepting everything, because I was always taught that this is what a man does. He takes responsibility for things. He takes pain and doesn't complain about it. When I thought about how much I've been hurting, how much pain that I've endured in the last few years, I realized that you are right. Life is too short to live without the one person that I care about the most."

"The one person ..."

"Yes, YOU you idiot!"

"But I thought..."

"You thought that I suddenly stopped caring about you because I had other obligations? Of course I still love you, Sherlock. I always have, and I've missed you all of this time. I just... I was afraid. I was afraid of what it would feel like if I went to visit, and you just didn't care anymore. If a case came up and you ran off with your new assistant at your heels leaving me alone in our old flat sitting in what must have become his chair by now. I didn't want to mar the mystery of our time together with something that was sure to make me feel disappointed and neglected. I suppose that I was afraid that your feelings for me would have changed."

"Eric doesn't sit in your chair. I keep in it your room. I sit in it... sometimes."

John smiled bending forward a bit so that his forehead touched Sherlock's shoulder. His hand moved farther around Sherlock's waist so that he held him in a light squeeze. Sherlock glanced down at him and then leaned closer so they stood in an awkward side-by-side embrace.

"I'm not going back," John said. "I'm going to stay here in this cottage with you and let the world go hang."

"Do you mean it?"

"Of course, I mean it. I said it, didn't I?"

Sherlock looked down at him very seriously, and then a grin broke out on his face. Then a laugh burst out, and his deep voice rolled throughout the room louder than the thunder. His laughter was infectious as always, and John laughed too. They laughed until they cried.

"Well, in that case, I'd better order you some more supplies. You didn't bother to pack enough toiletries, and I know how you hate to use my 'poncy, girly shampoo' as you call it."

"How do you know that I didn't pack shampoo? Have you gone through my things? Of course you have."

"Your supply of bandages is also a bit low, and why don't you carry morphine? You ought to keep your bag better stocked, John."

"Sherlock, you are insufferable."

"I suppose that we'd better get the other bed down now if you can tear yourself away from reading my old notebooks long enough."

"Sherlock, how did you ...?"

"Stains on your fingers, John. They're from the ink that I use to write my notes with. It's quite distinctive, besides the fact that you left the ladder down. It doesn't take an intellect like mine to make such a simple deduction, John. Come."

"Okay genius, but you let me carry the bed frame. You can help with the mattress, but we don't want you tearing open your side. As you said, I'm dangerously low on bandages."

" 'We don't want?' Is that the royal 'we', or are you including me in your statements now?"

"I'm including you in everything now," John said and Sherlock's smile became a blush. John pulled his head back and stared, threatening another laugh. Then he reached out and ruffled Sherlock's hair before walking out of the room and climbing into the attic.

They assembled the bed and then spent the night wrapped up in their blankets talking, like boys huddled in a tent during a camping trip where the weather had turned fowl. They talked of things important and unimportant until the storm quieted and John dozed off, his head propped against the wall.

Sherlock rose from the bed and lowered John gently down. He tucked him in, and then went back to his violin to begin a new composition about the two of them together again. It was triumphant.

.

The next morning, John rose bleary-eyed to find that his suitcase had been unpacked, and his robe was hanging on the back of the door. He put it on, and after a brief visit to the bathroom, he went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The refrigerator had been stocked with sausages, cheese, and eggs, and his favorite jam was on the table next to a pot of honey. As John shuffled out of the kitchen. he saw Sherlock pass by outside of the window. He opened the back door, and Sherlock came in tapping his feet on the mat and then shaking the rain water off of his coat like a dog.

"Sherlock! watch the water will you? I'm in my slippers."

"John. I think that I've found a place to put it. Not far from here, on a hill."

"Put what?"

"The bee hive!"

"What bee hive? Have you been talking to me while I'm asleep again?"

"It's only logical, John. If we are going to plant a garden we will need pollinators. I've noticed a marked lack of them in this area, but we could solve that problem by starting our own colony of bees. Besides, I've always been interested in the phenomenon of bee colony collapse. It's a very important problem. I've often thought of putting my mind to it, but it wasn't something that I had time for back in London. I think that it would be quite nice to spend some time studying it. I've reconnected my laptop if you'd like to read up on it?"

"Not now, at least not before a cup of coffee."

"Sorry John, I didn't order any coffee. Give me a minute to assemble my phone, I can send a text..."

"No Sherlock, tea will be fine, but I will have to call Mary and tell her that I'll be staying."

The edges of Sherlock's mouth fell. "What are you going to tell her?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose that I should tell her that... it's over."

"Not yet, John."

"What?"

"I know what she'll do if you say that, and I'm not ready to deal with that yet. Just send her a note saying that I'm not doing well, and that you will have to stay for here for some weeks."

"But Sherlock, I've already decided."

"I know what you've decided, but ... humor me, please?"

"Alright. I'll just send an email. Where is your laptop?"

The whistle blew and John sent the message while Sherlock brewed them a pot of tea.

.

The next few days were some of the most relaxed days that the two of them had ever had in their lives. They fell back into step with each other as if they had never been apart. Sherlock spent most of the day composing on his violin. He would stop for brief walks through the damp grounds. Sometimes John would go with him, but more often not, because he rushed through the trees with long urgent strides, and John wasn't as young as he used to be."

John found a tool shed out back which he took to cleaning. He oiled the spades and hoes and began to plan his garden. He read about the growing season, and which seeds would most likely grow here. One evening, he took out some of Sherlock's paper and pencils and sketched a plan for their medicine and poison garden, as well as where to place a bench for them to admire it all from. He improved it day by day, adding color when he found the pack of colored pencils in one of the laboratory boxes that they had moved into the attic. When he was finished to his satisfaction, he posted the plan on the wall near back door so that he could look at it before going out.

Sherlock continued playing. Sometimes John would just sit in his chair and listen to him play, and Sherlock would raise an eyebrow and smile, playing a composition from start to finish just for him.

One night as they sat together by the fireside, John looking at an old farmers almanac that he had found in the attic, and Sherlock with his hands steepled on his knees lost in thought, John asked Sherlock. What are you composing anyway?

"It's an autobiography of sorts."

"An autobiography?"

"Yes, in music. It's about the work. About people that I've met, and crimes we've solved. Its my life transcribed into music. I hope to make a symphony. Well, at least a few movements of one."

"A symphony of Sherlock? Wonderful! You're going to have to publish it you know."

"What?"

"You're going to have to publish it. Have an orchestra perform it. I know that you can probably hear the entire thing in your head just by looking at the music, but I can't. I want to hear it performed."

"But John, I'm not a professional musician."

"And I'm not a professional writer, or I wasn't until I started the blog."

"John, I can't ... I don't..."

"What? You don't want to show others a different side of your personality? To perform something that might not be perfect? Nothing in life is perfect, Sherlock. Get over your need to make things perfect, and just follow your heart. Take a leap. Like we used to do back in London when you led me on that ridiculous chase on the rooftops. Besides, when did you ever miss an opportunity to show off? You know that you want to hear it too."

Sherlock lowered his hands to his lap, then he nodded. "Alright, if you insist. I know a conductor who might be interested. He runs a small orchestra in Zagreb. I helped him retrieve a stolen violin once. I can query him in the morning to see if he's interested."

"Good. You do that."

Sherlock jumped to his feet. "But there's so much that I have to do before I can show it to anyone." He rushed across the room and picked up his violin, spreading out a stack of papers on the table with one hand before taking up his bow.

.

John tilted his head, watching as Sherlock played a miraculously high arpeggio. His face softened, and he felt such a wave of fondness for the man, whom he loved, but no one else seemed to have the patience to understand. Sherlock's brilliance was creative. His talent was boundless.

John closed his eyes imagining a large theater. He sat in the front row watching the orchestra as it began to play. Of course Sherlock would play lead violin, who else could do it half as well? Then everyone would know how amazing Sherlock was. Sherlock, had a beautiful expressiveness to his playing so unlike the cold, uncaring persona that he projected. Listening to him was like finding a rare orchid in a desert, becoming witness to a wonder that no one else had bothered to look for. He couldn't wait for a time when everyone could see Sherlock the way that he did. They knew about his brain, but only John had seen the true beauty of his heart.

Sherlock woke him not long after, sending him to bed to spare his back, and the next morning he found Sherlock conversing in French with a conductor on video chat. The conductor had been ecstatic about the few pieces that he had seen, and had asked for the composition to be completed by the summer so that they could present the new work in the fall season. He assured Sherlock that this work of S. Vernet (as he called himself) would be well received. He already was in love with Irene's song, and the rooftop chase was the most exciting new piece he'd heard in years.

Strangely, Sherlock didn't know how to deal with this type of flattery. He simply promised to keep in touch and signed off, staring up at John's grin as he said, "Come on, Mozart. Have a bit of breakfast. It will give you the energy to keep composing."

They lived for a time in a soap bubble. Their days punctuated by iridescent moments of happiness: Sherlock standing in the shower enjoying the converging perspective of the drops of water falling from his hair. A gentle knock as John comes in to shave, chatting with him about nothing for five minutes or so.

John listening to Sherlock excitedly describe his piece, commenting on the rises and falls in the music. Unable to keep still as he explains the significance of each theme and time signature. Then John hears a melody like a steady marching heartbeat that soars, transforming into the most beautiful song that he can ever remember hearing.

"What's that part?" he asks.

Sherlock smiles at him and says, "Why John, didn't you know? That's your theme."

Days and nights, mornings and evenings of joy that stretched and grew until one day when John is searching for a pencil that has rolled under Sherlock's chair, he finds his phone. He picked up the pieces and replaced the battery. Then the phone beeped showing an inbox full of messages and missed calls.

"Don't," Sherlock said suddenly behind him.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at them. They'll only cause you pain. They'll try to make you feel guilt, force you to come back to them."

"They're only messages, Sherlock."

"Please."

"I'm just going to glance at them."

Sherlock sighs and turns away as John leafs through the messages, a frown growing on his face.

"I told you not to read them."

"Mary has started divorce proceedings. She wants custody of the kids!"

"John, don't."

"My substitute doctor can't continue past the end of the month. He's moving to Denmark, and there's even a message from Violet. She asks when she will get to see me again."

Sherlock leans over his shoulder. "That one's faked. Look at the way that word is misspelled. I've had letters from your daughter. She has amazingly good diction. Likely this was a trick to get you back sooner. Mary is too smart to make such a mistake. It must be the other one, the wrestler. What was his name again?"

"Tom."

"Yes, it must be his attempt to get you to return. If they want you back, then you shouldn't go. Somehow, that will let her get the upper hand in the divorce proceedings."

" But..."

Sherlock took the phone out of his hand. He flipped the back cover off and threw the battery away. "No John, not now. I'll never finish the symphony without you. Tell me you will stay here at least until I've finished."

Sherlock held John's hand and his gaze until he finally nodded, then he turned and left. John bent down to retrieve the back of the phone, replacing it and setting the phone down on the table before following Sherlock out of the room.


	7. Scratching at the gate

Sherlock was always working. He rarely slept or even stopped playing for any length of time. Once he was sawing the bow so vigorously that he broke a string which flew up and scratched him on the chin. John stopped him then, and he bandaged it. He checked his hands and wrists, sitting him down in a chair as he wrapped them. Sherlock's knees kept jumping in time even as he submitted to this attention and as soon as John allowed him, he jumped up, changed his string, and began the piece again.

Sometimes Sherlock would repeat the same section over and over and over. He might change it a tiny bit, then he would stop while he wrote it down, before starting the process again. John considered earplugs, but decided instead to go outside. He went for a walk down the cow trail until he got to the gate. Then he checked the post.

The letter box contained a brown envelope that revealed itself to be full of music paper, an advertisement for a store grand opening in the nearby town, and a small note addressed simply, John. He opened the envelope to find a white card with a phone number on it, and a message that said:

_"If you need anything at all. -MH"_

John placed the card in his back pocket, but not before transferring the number to his wallet. He returned to find Sherlock going over Irene's song again.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked moments after John entered the cabin and placed the music paper on the table.

"Who?"

"You know who, John."

"How did you know? By the length of my steps?"

"John, you are many things, but you are not good at keeping secrets. I can see by your brow that you had resolved not to tell me about the card that I can clearly see wedged in your back pocket. That the card is from Mycroft is obvious because no one else knows the mailing address, as you so clearly told me when you arrived. Focus John. How will you ever become a detective without learning to pay attention?"

"Oh, do you still want me to become a detective? I thought that we were retired?"

"I haven't decided yet. I do have this to accomplish first, but I am not quite old enough to resolve to leave the world forever. Like I said, life in the country can be so boring sometimes."

"Bored with me already?"

Sherlock lowered his bow. "No John, never."

"Good."

"So, what did Mycroft say?"

"He just said to call if I needed anything."

Sherlock frowned and put the violin under his chin. "Meddling tit. Whatever you do, don't call him. He probably just wants to check up on me, or worse, he wants me to do some of his dirty work again."

"Oh, Sherlock. Don't be so hard on your brother."

"Why not, John? There was a time after my return when you would have cheered if I punched him out."

"I'm not saying that I still wouldn't. He is still an interfering git, but he does love you, and we need every ally we have now."

"John, must you speak of politics. You're becoming as tedious as Anderson. Stop thinking. You're putting me off my composing."

"Sorry," John said holding up his hand. "I'll just go do a bit of reading, shall I."

.

John walked past Sherlock and on into the bedroom. He sat at the desk looking at the trees outside of the window, before pulling out Sherlock's laptop. There were so many stories that he had never told about their time together. Some were too sensitive, but some were simply too complex to describe in a blog post. Reading back over his early entries now, John was upset at how poor his writing was. He wanted a chance to make it better, to improve the stories so that people could understand what Sherlock had accomplished, what Sherlock's life meant to the world. He resolved to start at the beginning, and tell what it was like to meet Sherlock. To explain how lost he was before he met the man who had saved his life so many times and in so many ways.

He began to write.

**A Study in Pink**

_**By John H. Watson**_

_I took my degree as a Doctor of Medicine and then entered the course prescribed for doctors who would enter the Army. Having completed my studies there, I was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers stationed in Afghanistan._

_After some time in service, I was struck in the shoulder by an Afghani bullet which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I was removed to a hospital at Peshiwar where I was overtaken with a severe fever and almost died. When I came to myself, I was so weak and emaciated that the medical board resolved, against my wishes, to discharge me of my duty and send me back to Britain._

_I stayed for a time in an ugly bedsit used for the transition of former soldiers, and for a time I led a comfortless, meaningless existence. Then, one day while I was walking through the park, I met an old friend, Dr. Mike Stamford, who introduced me to the man who would change my life._

He stopped, and read it over again. It seemed harsh and plain, and at the same time overly romantic. Even so, just remembering that time made John feel uncomfortable. What if he hadn't gone out that day. What if he had not met Mike in the park. Then his life would have been so different, what little there was left of it before he finally decided to use the gun that he had illegally purchased. He closed his eyes wanting and yet not wanting to go back to that time again just so that he could get a glimpse of Sherlock as a young man: Tall, arrogant, unmarred by the trials that would ultimately make him into the man that he had become.

John decided to check his blog. He rarely read it since he had stopped writing it long ago. His last entry said that he was stopping posts for the foreseeable future. He read the messages below the post. Most were asking him to continue, but one read...

_Don't forget to bring home catfood._

_**Mary**__ March 15_

John jumped to his feet, looking around nervously, before digging his phone out of his medical bag where he had hidden it. There was no way that he could call while in the house. Sherlock had the ears of a Doberman. Spying his gardening gloves on the windowsill, he shoved the phone into his front breast pocket, and then did up his coat. He shut down the laptop and left the room, walking past Sherlock with the gloves in his hand. He left through the back door walking toward the garden shed, not knowing if he was fooling Sherlock who, although he had his eyes closed, probably knew what he was doing by the guilty sound of his hand on the door.

When he was out of sight of the cottage, he walked long strides down the path ending up on the hill where Sherlock had begun to build a base for his bee hive. John opened his phone then and called Mary.

"John?"

"Mary, you said it was an emergency. What's wrong?"

"John, where are you?"

"I told you. I'm with Sherlock."

"Well come back home at once."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong is people are asking me where you've gone, and I don't even know. Gone to visit a sick friend works for about a week, after that it becomes suspicious."

"You said that it was important. Why did you call me for something so trivial?"

"Trivial? It's difficult raising three kids with two parents, yet you left me here to fend for myself. Recital season is coming, and the baby is still so young. William misses you. He keeps asking when you are coming back, and I don't know what to say."

"I'm busy. It will be a while yet."

"John, listen to me. I know that you missed Sherlock, but you have a family now. You have responsibilities."

"Yes, about that."

"Oh God, John! You didn't let him convince you to run away with him did you? I know that you could never resist that man, but I want you home now! I don't care how good the sex is."

"Mary, It's not like that. I'm not..."

"I know. You're not gay. I've heard it enough times, but that doesn't mean that you wouldn't let that man vivisect you if he asked. You are completely obsessed, but life with him is a fantasy, John. You know how Sherlock is. He's not the kind of person who can truly love another."

"And you are? Look, Mary, I've made my choice. I want to be with Sherlock."

"You come back right now, or I swear, I'll make it so that you won't be able to."

"Christ Mary! Do you always have to do this? Force me into the shape that you want and just assume that I'll take it. You knew the score when you met me. You knew, and yet you got me to marry you..."

"You are the one who asked me to marry you, John, and I said yes. Don't have selective memory now after all of our time together."

"I asked Mary Morston to marry me, not you."

The line went silent.

"John, I don't want to have this conversation over the phone. Come home and we'll talk."

"No. Not now. We _will _talk, eventually, but not now. I can't leave him now."

"I'll give you a week. Then ..."

"Then what?"

"Goodbye John."

The line went dead. John closed the phone and put it back into his pocket before putting his hand to his forehead. He walked back to the cabin, got some water and an aspirin and lay down in his bed.

.

Sherlock entered soon after. "What did she say?"

He turned his head to look, but didn't even bother to ask him how he knew. "Nothing of importance. She told me to come home."

"So are you going?"

John rolled onto his side to better see Sherlock. He was perched on his bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, his lower lip trapped by his upper teeth as he bit. "No. I'm not leaving."

Sherlock nodded twice quickly and then rocked a bit on the bed. John sat up and walked across to sit beside him. He ran his hand up and down Sherlock's backbone caressing the spinous process of his vertebrae.

"Sherlock. Don't worry. Everything will work out fine."

Sherlock smirked and his face transformed into the half-scowl that he gave when he heard an obvious lie. John was astonished at how open Sherlock was when they were alone together. So often he performed or hid his true feelings, but now he was showing even his doubts. John smiled and placed a hand on his cheek. Sherlock stared back with wary, curious eyes. Then John leaned forward and hugged him. His forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock moved one hand around his back, but didn't know what to do with the other one. It flailed awkwardly until Sherlock placed it on John's forearm and patted it briefly. John started to giggle. Then he pulled down Sherlock's head and kissed his forehead.

"Go finish that symphony Sherlock. I'm going to take a nap."

"You know that you hate napping in the middle of the day, John."

"I'll manage. Go."

Sherlock rose awkwardly to his feet then and walked to the door looking back once before leaving. John moved across to his bed then, and went to sleep.


	8. Light between the clouds

The rain returned, and they lived on tea and tinned soup because their delivery boy wouldn't come on days when the weather was too bad. John had yet to see the boy who took on a mythical status in his mind as if he were a leprechaun or some other type of woodland fairy. John was tempted to leave out a dish of milk.

Sherlock continued with his work. He pulled out a fax machine from somewhere and began faxing pages to his composer friend, who sent back email copies of them covered with annotations and requests for clarification of time signatures. Sherlock was a man possessed, and John gave him his space, making sure that tea and sandwiches showed up beside him at key moments in the day. When his head began to fall on his papers from exhaustion, John would put an arm around his chest and physically pull him into the bed room, laying him down and covering him with a duvet. Then John would steal back the laptop and begin writing again.

The words poured from him. Things that he hadn't thought of in years. The cut of Sherlock's shirts. The look on Lestrade's face when Sherlock asked why someone would be concerned about their dead daughter. The bright color of the dead woman's phone. There were some things that he omitted to write about how however, such as the way that his heart picked up whenever Sherlock called him to follow, or how good the gun felt in his hand when he had successfully shot a killer across an impossible distance to save Sherlock's life.

When Sherlock rushed in demanding back his laptop, John would stop, save his work, and then sleep. He learned to tell when Sherlock was coming, so that he would have it unplugged and ready to pass to him as soon as he entered the room. They shared the same space in harmony. They rarely needed to speak.

When the rain stopped, John went out into the muddy garden and pushed a few found seeds into the ground, hoping to start a crop of sage, dill and basil to use for seasoning. Sherlock came out to help him, dropping seeds into the holes that John made in the earth until he suddenly exclaimed loudly, "That's it! Brilliant John." Thrusting the seeds into John's hands as he rushed off to begin playing something new.

John tried not to think too much of Mary's ultimatum as the days ticked down to a conclusion. On the last day, John spent the morning sitting with his phone on the table beside him, refusing to pick it up. Then Sherlock poked his head into the room and said, "Come John, let's go for a walk." So John rose and put on his coat to follow Sherlock out of the back door and down the trail.

Sherlock strode ahead and John followed behind as they walked through trees and groves. At one point, Sherlock walked up to an old well, and jumped in. John ran forward nearly hyperventilating as he peered over the stone wall only to find Sherlock smiling up at him from inside the sealed well base. John strode away in a huff, and Sherlock followed him up the green hill laughing. John walked faster trying to hold on to his anger which threatened to fall away in the face of Sherlock's mirth when the sun came out making everything look even more green and beautiful. They stood side by side on the top of the hill looking out over the fields as crepuscular rays stabbed through the clouds.

"This reminds me a bit of Baskerville," John said.

"Baskerville? But the landforms and flora are completely different."

"True, but the sky is the same."

Their reverie was interrupted by a beeping sound coming from Sherlock's pocket. He reached in pulling out a phone.

"I thought that you had disconnected your phone," John said.

"This isn't my phone."

"Well it certainly isn't mine."

"It's my laptop's phone."

"It's what?"

"Despite appearances to the contrary, I am interested in keeping informed of the world at large. I would like to know if war broke out in Europe or martial law was declared in London for example, so I have a program that scans the news channels for me. If something of significant import occurs, then it sends a message to this phone."

"Amazing! I didn't know that you could do that."

"I can do virtually anything, John, if I set my mind to it. It wouldn't do to keep entirely isolated. What if something like Moriarty's return were to happen again?"

"In that case, I'd expect that Mycroft would land a helicopter on the lawn."

"I suppose you're right. Well, let's get back and see what's happening in the outside world."

They went briskly back to the cottage. Sherlock walked with a leaping stride that caused John to have to scurry to keep up. Once there, Sherlock opened the laptop and punched in a code. Several screens opened showing headlines. Sherlock leafed through an incredibly long list of emails, stopping to open two marked ones which showed gory crime scenes.

"What is it?"

"Serial killer."

"Anyone we've seen before?"

"No, I don't think so, but wait... I think..."

"What Sherlock?"

"Look at the knife marks here and here. The angle is from below. Either the killer is very short, or ... John, I think that this killer is female. A female serial killer! Interesting."

Sherlock pulled his own phone from where he had hidden it in the chair cushions, and then he put the battery and card back in. He looked down at the screen, thumbs flying as he read through his messages.

"Eric is back from Germany. He's been texting, wondering where I am."

John looked over Sherlock's shoulders at the large number of texts labeled Eric. "Persistent isn't he."

"Yes."

"I suppose that is a good trait in an investigator. You should tell him where you are."

"I should? Why?"

"He deserves to know where you've gone."

"He does? Well, if you insist."

Sherlock pushed reply and texted. [I'm busy with John. Leave me alone.]

"You can't send that."

"Why not?"

"People will think ... we're together."

"But John, we are together."

John bit his lip. "Yes, I suppose that's true. I expect that Mrs Hudson will be calling to congratulate us in thirty minutes."

He chuckled and Sherlock's eyes turned toward him. The corner of one lip rising slightly into a half smile.

"I'll ask him to email the details of the case to me. This one looks interesting."

He glanced over at John, and then stopped as he noticed the nervous look on his face.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Are we going back?"

Sherlock looked into John's eyes and then put his phone into his pocket. He leaned over then and shut the laptop with a click before picking up his bow. "No, not yet. There's the symphony."

"Right," John said with a nod and a sigh. Then he went over to build up the fire, picking up the almanac to read while Sherlock distractedly pulled his bow over his violin making agitated, incomplete phrases instead of a melody. John was sure that his mind was at least partially on the killer back in London, and he wondered which would win out in his mind: The symphony, or the murderer.

.

That evening, Sherlock actually went to bed on his own. John sat up late, looking at the fire and wondering what would happen when they returned to London together. He pulled out his phone and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times.

"Hello," a groggy voice said.

"Mary."

"Oh, just a minute." John heard the muffled sounds of Mary climbing out of bed, and one,_ 'What is it baby?'_ before a door closed and Mary spoke again quietly. "John. Why are you calling so late?"

"I'm sorry. I forgot the time. Are you in your flat? Who's watching the kids?"

"You're asking me now? It's been weeks, John. Now you suddenly remember that you're a father?"

"What else do you expect me to say when I call home to find my wife in bed with her lover? People who live in glass houses..."

"Anabelle is taking care of the kids."

"Anabelle? Miriam's sister?"

"Yes, I hired her as a live in nanny."

"Live it? But where does she sleep?"

"In your study."

"My study!"

"Don't worry, I moved all of your junk out of it. It looks quite nice now."

"Well, it's nice to know that I've been missed."

"John, don't try to sound as if you were the injured party. You're the one who left. We had made an arrangement, and then you kited off after Sherlock without even a 'by your leave'."

"I'm a doctor. He was injured."

"Months ago. He was injured months ago, and because of some kind of misplaced guilt, you felt the need to chase him across England to... do what exactly? Give him a physical?"

"Mary, it was more than that. We parted on bad terms and I..."

"I know, I know. I understand how concerned you were about him. I missed him too, but did you have to leave now, right when we're in the middle of ... whatever it is that we're in the middle of?"

"Our breakup you mean? This isn't entirely new for me, getting kicked out on my ear. My relationships never worked with anyone, except for Sherlock."

"There goes your selective memory again. We've been together for twelve years. Twelve years John!"

"Yes, but time doesn't equate to closeness. I've felt closer to Sherlock in the eight years that I've been away from him, than I have every night sleeping in bed with you."

"And whose fault is that, John? You know where I came from. How many years of coming home from work and fixing dinner, taking care of you when you were sick, and bearing your children does it take before you learn to trust me again? How do you think it felt for me to know that even when you were in bed with me, you were wishing that you were back with him? I've lived with that the entire time that I've known you John, even before he came back. If you cared so much for Sherlock Holmes, maybe you should have married him, back then instead of me. I'm sure he would have agreed. We could hardly get him to shut up talking about how much he cared about you."

"That's enough, Mary. We don't need to dredge up the past."

"Finally! Now you want to forget the past? I wish that you had read that memory stick. I wish that you had read about the people that I had killed and just told me then how much you hated me. Then perhaps I could have left you and started my own life."

"Why didn't you leave me?"

"Wasn't it obvious? Because I loved you, John. Didn't you ever figure that out, ever? Didn't you notice me standing up in a church with you and promising my love and loyalty?"

"I just assumed that you lied about that, just like you lied about everything else."

"As if you can talk, John. You talk about honesty as if you are honest man. You may not know how to lie to someone's face, but you lie by omission all of the time. Have you ever told him about your time in the war?"

"You said_ 'You loved me_'. Does that mean that you don't love me anymore?"

"No, John, I do not love you."

"Are you lying?"

"John. It's late. Call me tomorrow. I have a meeting in the morning, but I'll keep the afternoon free. Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Mary."

John put the phone down and rose to his feet. He brushed his teeth and then pushed open the bedroom door, toeing off his shoes and sitting on the edge of his bed. Sherlock was in bed facing the wall.

"What did she say?"

"I should have known that you were awake."

"Are you going back?"

"I don't know, Sherlock, I don't know. I promised that I would stay with you until you finished the symphony. How far along are you?"

"I finished it two days ago."

John laughed.

"So what did she say?"

"Weren't you listening?"

"Of course. I heard what was said, but I don't know what it meant."

"She told me I was a liar."

"But John, you are one of the most open people that I know."

"For you, Sherlock, that's not saying much."

"You don't have to tell me the truth, John. You know that I'll deduce it all anyway."

"Even you can't deduce everything."

"What can't I deduce?"

"Go to sleep Sherlock."

John covered himself with his blanket then and tried to sleep.


	9. Coward

The next morning, John walked into the living room to find Sherlock returning through the front door carrying a large envelope under his arm. He took off his gloves and put them into his pocket.

"What is that? Your symphony?"

"No," Sherlock said hanging up his coat. He walked into the kitchen, and John followed watching as Sherlock tore open the package, pouring out the contents onto the table. There were some papers, a pair of plane tickets, and two small booklets. He lifted one to find that it was his own passport.

"You had a new passport printed for me?"

"Yes. I thought that it might be better than you going home to fetch yours."

"Where am I supposed to be going?"

"Croatia. They are starting rehearsals and I've been asked to attend. You are coming aren't you?"

John looked down at the passport, his fingers curling around the spine.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't just leave the country."

"Why not?"

"I have left things hanging: The children, my practice."

"You said, and I quote, _'let the world go hang_'. "

"I know."

Sherlock's lip twitched into a frown. "You're going back to them aren't you?"

"I think that I'll have to. I didn't realize it until now. I can't leave things as they are."

"I see." Sherlock stood very stiffly, then he turned and left the room. John reached out to the papers on the table turning them to get a better look. A bright yellow sticker said, '_sign here._' He picked it up and read that it was a deed for the cottage. The deed said that ownership was shared between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

John walked slowly out of the kitchen to find Sherlock waxing his bow again. He was trying to seem unconcerned, but he couldn't stand still. He glanced up at John with anger in his eyes and then looked away.

"Alright, Sherlock, what is it?"

"Mary was right. You are a liar."

"What do you mean Sherlock. I haven't lied to you."

Sherlock laughed. "You told me that you were staying with me. Wasn't that a lie?"

"Sherlock, it's just... There are some things that I just can't do. I can't abandon my family like this."

"Why not? You abandoned me."

"Abandoned? Sherlock, I thought you were dead."

"Yes John, and while I was dead, I was traveling the world trying to save your life. I had hoped that when I returned you might have felt some lingering sense of loyalty or appreciation for my sacrifice, but what do I find? Mary."

"I only chose Mary because you had gone."

"I came back!"

"But, by then it was too late. I had already promised..."

"What? You had promised nothing, John. It was after I came back, that you proposed to her. You've always chosen Mary over me."

"I don't believe this. She says the same thing, that I always choose you. You can't both be right."

"When did you ever chose me over her?"

"Mary says that I always think of you first. She says ... that I love you more."

"And do you?"

"Well ...Yes, I think so. I think that I always have."

"I hate you."

"Sherlock?"

"I hate you for what you've done. I thought that you were a man above the crowd, but I find that you are ordinary just like the rest of them. You let society's expectations rule you. You would rather be accepted than happy. You hurt me, carelessly, thoughtlessly."

"Hurt you? What do you mean? I don't mean to hurt..."

"Oh Shut up, John!" Sherlock said slamming his bow down on the table. There was a loud crack, and they both stared at the broken bow in horror. Then Sherlock tossed it away and crossed his arms, lowering himself down into a crouch.

John walked forward cautiously. He reached a hand out toward Sherlock, who pulled away from him.

"Sherlock, please. If I'm hurting you, I'll change, just tell me what's wrong."

"Stop. Stop trying to sound good. You are not good! You knew what I was like when you met me. Virtually friendless, envied by some, hated by others. I had come to a kind of peace with it all, found a way to deal with the constant pressure of other's emotions. Then you came, and became my friend, and I realized how bereft I was. Lonely, my entire life, and I never knew.

"I was so afraid of losing you, that I changed myself. I stopped smoking to please you, cut back on my experiments, was polite to people who were obviously idiots all to make you happy. But I should have known better. You don't want to be happy. You never have. Living in that ugly bedsit. Denying yourself the things that you wanted until you were so depressed you actually considered suicide.

"I don't know why I didn't see it before, watching you go on date after date with one boring woman after another. You knew that you craved danger in your life, yet you only chose safe, quiet, women. Women who fit your ideal of what you _should_ want rather than what you _did_ want."

"And what did I want?"

"You wanted me. You wanted to keep working with me, living with me, and yet you continually threatened our partnership with women who were sure to object to it. You wanted us to be together, but you were so afraid that someone would think that you were gay, that you had to prove your manhood every opportunity you could, no matter what it did to us, to me. You said that it was all fine, but you could barely even stand to touch me."

"That's not true, Sherlock. I touched you all of the time."

Sherlock shook his head, "Only when I asked you to. You would never let yourself get that close. When we were running from the police, I had to practically order you to take my hand."

"But, Sherlock... you don't like to be touched."

"I don't like to be touched by strangers! I never minded being touched by Mrs Hudson, and I never minded being touched by you. But you always kept your distance from me, physically and emotionally. '_People might talk_,' you'd say. I never cared what other people thought. Did you ever imagine what it felt like for me to be constantly denied even the simplest gestures of affection? You never had trouble touching Mary in public, or even Lestrade, but me... You went out of your way to tell everyone that we were 'j_ust friends_'. Despite the fact that you were closer to me than anyone. Despite the fact that we had built our lives around each other. You always kept your distance, even after my return. Even after you told me ... that you loved me.

"You had friends before. You knew what relationships were like. I didn't. I only had you to learn from. You taught me that friends spend time together, they share, they give their lives to save each other, and I did that. I did everything that you expected of me, but you still didn't chose me in the end. You chose her. Even after I confessed my love for you in front of all of your friends, you chose her. Even after she shot me, and revealed herself to be lying from the moment that you met her, you chose her. It took me a while to get the message, but I finally have.

"You are a coward, John Watson. It doesn't matter whether you love me or not, you would rather live a broken unhappy existence with Mary and have society's approval, than live happily with me and have the world call you gay." Sherlock shut his eyes, and a single tear came down. He rose then and left slamming the bedroom door behind him.

"Damn!" John said punching the table with his fist so that it shuttered. He lifted his red knuckles to his lips, then he rushed to the door and put on his coat, running out of the house as if it would somehow make the words that he had heard untrue.

Sherlock lay on his bed sulking after John had gone. He rose once to look out of the window when the rain started to fall. It was an hour later before he heard the back door open and the sound of John scraping off his boots. Sherlock threw himself down on the bed hiding his face. Then the bedroom door opened and John came in. He was drenched. His hair was completely wet and the front of his shirt as well. There were traces of mud on his socks, his shoes having been left by the door. He stood before Sherlock's bed and Sherlock turned to look up at his face.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock sat up in his bed. "You're soaked. You'll catch your death."

John sat on his bed and pulled off his socks. Then he sighed. "You are right. Both of you are right. It's me. I'm the problem. I never wanted you to think that I was rejecting you. I was proud to be your partner, am proud. I don't care what other people think, not really. That's not the reason that I kept my distance. The truth is that I have never been truly honest with you, with anyone, about my feelings. I suppose that I always felt a man should hide what he truly feels. I didn't want to burden you. No, I was afraid that if you knew what I had done, that you would think less of me."

"What you had done? What do you mean?"

"Sherlock, have I told you about the war? About how I got my scar?"

"No. I deduced it though."

"What did you deduce about me, and the war?"

"That you were a soldier and a good shot. That you crave excitement. You miss it. That you were a good doctor and an honorable man. That you were brave."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not brave. You were right. I'm a coward. I've never shown you my scar. I thought that if you saw it, you'd deduce the truth about me, so I always hid it from you. I never wore T-shirts under my shirts before I moved in with you, but afterwards, I always did. Didn't you never wonder why?"

"I assumed that you were modest."

"Did I look like the kind of person to be modest about my body? Hell, Sherlock! I ran around naked in Afghanistan. Our accommodations weren't exactly five-star."

John pulled his shirt up over his head and walked toward Sherlock's bed. Sherlock stared. "Look at it. Look at it closely and tell me what you deduce about me."

Sherlock rose cautiously from the bed. He walked over and turned on the desk lamp angling it up to shine on John's skin, then he grabbed John's shoulder and pulled him closer, putting his nose right up against John's chest as he stared into the wound. He walked around him, his fingers probing the bones on his back as he felt the shape of the scapula and the clavicle.

"Rifle wound at close quarters. Entry through the back, steep angle. Fractured the scapula and nicked the clavicle before hitting bottom edge of the right subclavian artery. Some of the dorsal cutaneous nerves must have been damaged. You were hunched over at the time, probably kneeling. Maybe, administering medical help?"

"No, I wasn't. I was cowering on the ground in fear for my life. I was an army doctor. I wasn't supposed to be on the front lines, but the commander had information about a terrorist base operating in the desert near the town that we were stationed to protect. He ran a raid to take them out, and was able to defeat them fairly easily, but a number of soldiers were hurt, so he requested that some doctors come to stabilize the men who had serious injuries. Another doctor and I went out with them. The men with the most serious injuries were loaded onto a helicopter and sent back to base. I stayed behind waiting for the next flight to carry back the others, but it never came.

"There was a cry and then rifle fire. We were surrounded. The entire thing had been a trap to lure us into a poorly defensible position with no source of water and precious little food for a siege. They bombed the buildings. When we broke cover, snipers shot us down. Half of the men were dead in less than an hour. The commander slapped a gun into my hand, and we stood in the doorway shooting down snipers that we located from the glare on their guns to give our man enough cover to run to the truck and call for air support. He called, but was gunned down soon after. We retreated to a back room.

"There were only twelve of us then and four were wounded. We had precious little ammunition and there was no way out. It didn't seem that help would arrive before we were all dead, so the commander ordered me, as the officer next in rank, to lead an expedition to a ridge where we had concealed a truck. We were to secure the truck and, if possible, come back for the others. If it was not possible, we were to get out however we could.

"Fry, Thompson, and I crawled out through a back window and hid behind the rubbish bin. The shadows were lengthening, and we hoped to use the cover of twilight to get out of the house while they distracted the enemy with grenade fire. We had gone about thirty meters away from the house when Thompson was shot in the leg. We returned fire, and pulled him after us. We found cover, and I wrapped Thompson's leg, but the ridge was still several hundred meters away. We couldn't make a run like that with an injured man. Thompson began going into shock. Fry finally hit the man who had shot Thompson and there were no more gunman in range. We only had a few minutes before they regrouped, so I left Thompson there behind the rock while Fry and I tried to make it to the truck. It shouldn't have been a fatal wound. If I had stayed he might have survived.

"We successfully crossed the flat, but we rounded the corner to find that the truck was guarded. Private Fry was killed immediately, a bullet to the head, but I raised my hands high and yelled 'medic' showing my armband. They held their fire, grabbing me, and throwing me down on the ground. I hunched over with my hands on my head praying that they wouldn't kill me. They were yelling back and forth, trying to decide what to do, when I heard the sound of helicopters. I thought that I had finally been saved, but once they realized that the helicopters had come, they decided that it was better to just kill me, so they shot me and left me bleeding out into the dirt.

"I was behind a cliff, concealed. The 'copters couldn't see me. I lay in the dirt with my life ebbing away, getting colder and colder, unable to do anything but pray, knowing that if help came it would probably be too late, and then I heard footsteps just before I passed out. The commander had told them where I had gone, and sent help. If he hadn't, I would most certainly be dead.

"When all was said and done, of a contingent of twenty-seven men, only four survived, not counting the men who had left before the attack. People see that I was wounded and they imagine that I've done something heroic. It couldn't have been further from the truth. I was just trapped in a tragedy trying my best to stay alive while other men died around me. I was lucky. That was the only reason that I survived and they didn't. I'm not a hero. I didn't get shot rushing toward my enemies. I was shot in the back while huddled on the ground begging them to spare my life.

"I didn't want you to see. I didn't want you to know that I'm not strong or valiant or brave. I'm not the man that you took me for. I am ordinary. For some reason, you thought that I wasn't, and I let you think it because .. because I wanted you to like me. You made my life bearable. You made my life exciting. And I lived in fear of the day you would realize how completely common I was and ask me to leave. I don't deserve your admiration or your respect. You were completely right. I am a coward."

"No, you're the bravest man I know. Only a fool would march toward a loaded gun, and you are not a fool, John Watson. Nothing that you have said has made me think any less of you. In fact, I'm honored that you've finally told me. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You rushed into a dangerous situation to save injured men, even though by their own rules, they had no right to ask you to. You kept your head and defended others, using your skill as a marksman to protect the man who was sent to signal for help. Then you went on a dangerous mission and were captured. Cowering for help gave you precious minutes of life. If you had charged toward them as you seem to think that you needed to do in order to be a hero, you would be as dead as that private that was sent along with you. Instead, you used your intelligence to stay alive until you could get help.

"No, John, you did nothing shameful. In fact, I'm proud of you. I'm proud of what you've done John, because if you hadn't done it that way, if you hadn't done it exactly right, you would have died, and I would never have met you. And without you, John, my life would have remained a sad and meaningless existence as well."

John turned to face him then, and he smiled. Sherlock smiled back. Then John stepped forward and caught him in a hug. Sherlock's arms came up slowly around his back. John put his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes, while Sherlock rested his on John's hair. This time it wasn't awkward, but was warm and loving, and John knew beyond a doubt that at this moment in this little cottage in the woods, he was happy.


	10. Sunrise

The morning sun crested the horizon and shone under the canopy of trees casting golden light through the tiny, green, spring buds. John stood in the back garden just outside of the shadow of the cottage and watched it slowly rising. He turned his head at the sound of the door opening, looking over his shoulder as Sherlock walked toward him, hopping from stone to stone and stepping over the flowers to reach his side. He approached John from behind, reaching out to rest his right hand lightly on the small of John's back.

John reached back with his left hand, threading his arm around Sherlock's waist and rubbing his hand up and down the soft blue fabric of Sherlock's suit. He pulled him close, until their sides were touching all along their length. Their thoughts were in accord with the peaceful morning birdsong. Their feelings for each other deep as the groundwater flowing beneath their feet.

"I love your house, Sherlock. It's so beautiful here."

"You signed the deed. This is your house too."

"We should put a bench right here so that we can watch the sunrise every morning once we retire. Don't you think?"

"Yes, I'll build us one."

"Do you even know how to use a hammer Sherlock, other than to break something with that is?"

"I'm not too old to learn."

"You're not old, Sherlock. You are timeless. You never change."

"I have changed."

"How?"

"I find that I no longer like living alone."

John closed his eyes. "Sherlock, if I can find a way, I will, but... I can't delay my patients anymore. I need to go."

"I know."

"What about you? Are you going to Croatia for the rehearsals?"

"No, I'll be going back to London as well."

"Yes, of course, the killer."

"I'll put your chair back beside the fireplace."

"I'll visit you as soon as I can. Besides I'm excited to meet this Eric of yours."

"Not half as excited as he will be to meet '_The great Captain Watson, retired'_ ."

"Sherlock."

"John."

"How would you like to be a father?"

"What? I don't know. I never seriously thought about it. Do you want to bring your children to Baker street?"

"The world that I want doesn't exist. I want my children. I want to live with you on Baker street. I have no idea how to reconcile these desires, but I want us to be together again."

"Solve it then."

John turned toward Sherlock. "What do you mean? I'm not the one who solves puzzles."

"No, you're the one who understands human nature. So solve it! Figure out a way for us to be together again."

John stepped back and crossed his arms as he thought.

"You'll have to keep the dead bodies at the morgue. Health and safety. Violet and William can share my room. They share a room now, so it wouldn't be much of a change, and Mary will insist on keeping the baby. A young child needs her mother."

"But... I'm not prepared. I don't know what kind of father I'd make. I can't imagine that I'd be a good one"

"No one is ever prepared, and I think that you'd make a fabulous father, Sherlock. And frankly I could use your help with Violet. She's already clever enough to sneak things past her old man, but I don't suppose she could hide drugs or a secret boyfriend from your observant eyes."

"I will try if you want me to. I do have one question though."

"What is it?"

"If Violet and William are in your room, where will you sleep?"

John turned to Sherlock and smiled as he looked up into his eyes. "We'll think of something."

Sherlock took a step closer. "Is this what you want, John?"

The phone on Sherlock's waist beeped then, and he pulled it out of his pocket. "New developments. The game is on!" Sherlock rushed back inside, and John followed. Sherlock turned the screen toward him as he entered.

"A double murder in the middle of a public square, but there are no witnesses."

"What about the cameras?"

"Nothing."

"Amazing. But ... the cab will be coming before long. I need to pack."

"John, I need you on this case."

"No, you don't."

"I want you then. You are a doctor. You know how well we work together."

"Maybe I can drop by to look at the crime scene, or visit the morgue?"

"I'll call you."

"I'll come."

John nodded then and went to the bedroom to pack. Sherlock hovered over the laptop staring at pictures and calling up news reports. He became lost in his work forgetting the passage of time until he looked up and saw John standing beside the door, bags in hand.

"So here we are," John said, his voice a quiet caress.

Sherlock simply stared.

"I'm leaving now?"

"Yes."

"But we'll see each other soon."

"Yes."

"So come here then."

Sherlock stood leaving his laptop open on the table as he walked over to the door to face John. "To the very best of times," he said.

"Ours are still ahead of us," John replied.

Sherlock reached out his hand, but John stepped closer wrapping his arm around Sherlock's neck and pulling him down to kiss his forehead, and then he touched his head to Sherlock's forehead, and they stayed that way for a moment, both of their eyes closed before John pulled away. Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He very solemnly kissed each of John's cheeks the way that his grandmother used to kiss him when he was a child.

John smiled and said, "I'll come to you."

"I'll be waiting."

Their eyes met and locked together, then John looked down, his eyes glinting wet as he picked up his bags and backed out of the door, taking a good long look and smiling, before turning to march up the path. Sherlock put a hand on the door frame. His eyes soft as he watched John until he passed out of sight.

The sun had come out again and the day was loud with the calls of birds as a butterfly flew past. Sherlock didn't notice it, however. His mind was far away in London focused on a pair of bodies found in a public square, and the image of John back in Baker Street where he belonged.


	11. Epilogue

_I almost forgot that on FFnet you can only post one comment per chapter, so here is my epilogue. Please comment._

EPILOGUE:

John and Sherlock love each other and want to live the rest of their lives together. What image do you see in your head right now? Tell me honestly. Do you see a gay couple? Do you see two happy old platonic men? Do we even have a name for this?

If John leaves his wife for Sherlock, what will people think?

If Sherlock picks up John's daughter from school and says, I live with her, what will people say?

You thought that the hardest relationship problem was John and Mary's lack of trust. I think that it may be John and Sherlock's love. Did John make the right decision all those years ago staying with Mary? Will it be better if he remains with her until they are grown, "For the children"?

Tell me, what do you think?


End file.
